Fated
by LCFC
Summary: Are we heroes or villians? How do we decide and who pays the price of our decisions?


Fated 

_I own nothing – only a sense of despair!_

They surround him now and there is no way out. It is dark and cold; rain coming down in torrents and an icy wind whipping around his hair and face. He is breathing heavily, blood staining his tee shirt from a wound in his side, scratches on his face and neck stinging as the rainwater hits him. He backs up against the wall, his fingers scrabbling for purchase and he closes his eyes, wanting only for this to end, for the pain to be over, for peace to finally reign.

He wonders how he got to this point. Hell he'd done everything that had ever been asked of him and more. He had left all he wanted behind and come back to this life again, he had saved more people than he cared to count or remember, he had killed more supernatural 'sons of bitches' than he had ever taken credit for; Yet here was his thanks, dying, painfully in a back alley, those who had once been his friends and allies only too glad to see him fall.

'I am one of them'. How many times had he said those words? How many times had that one sentence been met with denial? If he could just concentrate for a moment, get beyond the pain, beyond the panic; he could see his brother's face, hear his brother's words. 'Dean' the name slips out of his mouth like a prayer and he smiles through the agony 'Dean'.

They are getting nearer and he knows that it is only fear that keeps them at bay. He has no weapons, no defence, yet they are afraid of him, afraid of what he might do. He would laugh if it didn't hurt so much, he would laugh if he knew that it wasn't going to end in hysteria, in tears. He can't hurt them, he never could. His 'gifts', his 'abilities' were never his to control. Dean helped him keep them in check, guided him through the worst of them, comforted him when they hurt him, got angry with him when they were vague and unclear. He never asked for this, never wanted it. All he wanted was to be normal, but he knew he would never have that now and maybe peace would be the best he could ask for.

They killed it. They killed the demon and saved thousands. They avenged their mother and Jess. They did it for dad. He laughs, a desperate sound, and the crowd around him surges forward, knives, guns, fists, all ready to work on him, all ready to defeat what they perceive to be a monster.

He lets himself go under, numbing his body to the pain. He didn't want it to end like this, but in some ways it will be easier, less painful, than a long, lingering life alone. 'Dean' he whispers the name again and wraps his long arms around his body, his head ducking, face hidden by wild, too long hair 'Dean'.

His brother had told him nothing bad would happen to him whilst he was around, but his brother was gone. Killed by the demon in that last big showdown. Found bloody and bleeding as Sam knelt over him, weeping and howling, his sanity hanging by a very slender thread.

He knew what the hunters thought and he knew what the hunters would do. He had seen his brother turn from something good and warm into something evil and cold, a being that would kill anything he perceived to be evil and ask questions later. He knew that those who cut him with their blades thought they were doing right and he knew that they would feel nothing but victory after he was gone. He felt his thoughts slipping away and he let himself go, wondering, at the last, if there was something beyond this life, something good and right, something that he could at last have, something that would not be taken away from him.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

They salted and burnt the bones and went back to the roadhouse to celebrate. Beer flowed and whiskey burnt and it was another day's work well done.

A wise man once said 'It'll never be over, there will always be something to hunt, something to kill'. There is a fine line between what is good and what is evil and that fine line is so easily crossed. How easy it is for the hunter to become the hunted, for the innocent to become prey. As the celebrations die down within the roadhouse walls, fear becomes more tangible, as those who tonight killed yet another 'supernatural monster', wonder when their time will come.


End file.
